[Verse 1]

I'm a mail runner

Squished between an erupting street and an exploding sky

In a hail of numbers

I'm [?] between knuckles and forces I sell piñata trojan horses

To screen-test the bloodsuckers, I sit undressed in Fuddruckers

Screen-fuck motherfuckers

But while I record a sound the motion pictures meet

'Cause I'm where rivers and oceans greet each other

And I spent the day at the fool party with an Anti-flag

Instead of being at the pool party with a scantily clad

Walking boob job, whose snob?

I grip on her nipples when I speak to her

But they say it's just a artificial sweetener

[?] ask for my jar of pickles and I'm obscene with her

'Cause I'm a reality sandwich

Clumsy, ugly, unflinching

With a side of mayo, tomatoes, [?] and a [?] brought to you

When I beckon, the word the [?] cries to me but you can't sound it out [?]

Your ideal talent scout, the voice of reasoning between two pieces of bread that

Moistens seedlings and speaks to the dead

But to hang out with us, you need a lot of duct tape

And a wallet-sized photo of your brainstem

'Cause I've seen DJ way up [at the plate?]

And often relay race [?] with your ears, shrieking when it sounds

You've probably made a wrong turn when you wanted to end up in the Lyricist Lounge

You know a bit of bitches found over there

But over here we undergo a fearsome scrounge

To compile a style of ball for your reality sandwich

[Hook]

Would you care to take a bite of this reality sandwich?

I think I've seen that you've nibbled on my reality sandwich

[Verse 2]

I'm an airborne pathogen

Mushed between sheet music and a composer’s eye

The rarest form of craftsman

I feel that I get beat tapes from the omnipotent

But he has crappy drum tracks

And covetous of your artist [?] clowns me

And I don't have a snappy comeback

What'd you expect from a moldy reality sandwich and unhappy lunch sack?

But it wants a little taste

'Cause I'm a nerd eating pimple paste who used to work in a missile base

Building weapons of mass destruction

But now I form shrubs, and instead of nuclear arms I give open-armed hugs

But what would you know about that?

You live in Burbank, and me, I have a word bank

You wear a necktie to accentuate your crotch

I usually meditate squat, you're like a menstruating twat

Or would you rather I count the units that my songs are selling

Sitting on the front porch eating some watermelon?

But how can you feel that way about a sparring heavyweight?

Who changes his appearance like Fletch, starring Chevy Chase?

But when I go to work, I can't seem to put my car in an empty space

Because I flunk-or-fail to the point that my panderous box is full of junk mail

"So I pull the skunk sail and get more than just a punch-in," said the risktaker

And compass that would not rather be an unfit benchwarmer

If I play it safe the turntables become a cotton gin

My rotten skin [in the car?] is my pixelated Nirvana

I lay untouched in a room of hungry buzzards

In order to take that first bite, you need a whole lot of honey mustard

I tried the reality sandwich, and now I sleep in an airbed

Speaking to ground control

I'm kind of a square peg in a round hole kind of guy

You know the song's over

When my fingers and the drum machine

Have been run over by a lawn mower

The song's over! (Yeah)

[Hook]

Would you like to have a bite of this reality sandwich?

My shelf life ain’t the half-life of an isotope

But I feel like the afterlife has always been twice as dope

Would you care to take a bite of this reality sandwich?